Almost Like a Virgin
by taylorpotato
Summary: Sherlock is a man with very particular sexual habits, and John quickly finds the futility in really questioning them. Lots of drunk sex, some sober sex, and a glorious helping of angst. Sequel to, "A Study in Shagging."
1. Chapter 1

_These characters do not belong to me, but I promise they're not doing anything they won't thoroughly enjoy ;)_

_Fair warning: drunk sex, some not drunk sex, and my oh my—when did this story get angsty? I didn't mean to. It just happened. I'll make it up to you, I promise._

* * *

John was almost three hours late returning home from the surgery. He was trying to hail a cab instead of catching the tube to shave a little time off his return trip. But it seemed every cab in London was already occupied.

It's not like any of it was his fault. There'd been a massive car accident. Every available doctor was called in to help with the chaos. He'd meant to text Sherlock. He really had. Just—everything had been so hectic. He'd barely had time to breathe, let alone shoot of a text to his flat mate and let him know he wouldn't be home at the usual time.

His heart sank as he finally climbed into the cab and looked down at his mobile. Seven new text messages.

**Is the tube a bit slower than usual this evening? - SH**

**Did you have other plans that you forgot to tell me about? - SH**

**I know we didn't officially say we'd both be in tonight, but I assumed. It is a Wednesday, after all - SH**

**Perhaps one of your awful co-workers offered to take you out for a drink and you couldn't say no? Do try to hurry things along - SH**

**I got us a bottle of wine. I'm opening it - SH**

**I'm drunk - SH**

**The wine is gone - SH**

Sherlock was bound to be in an exceedingly foul mood. Either that, or he would have already wrecked himself, smoked a few cigarettes, wanked, and fallen asleep. John felt incredibly guilty. Despite Sherlock's hatred of formalities, they'd both fallen into a comfortable routine of shagging like rabbits. Almost every other night sometimes. It had been going on for about three months.

The cab got stuck in traffic. By the time they finally got to Baker Street, John was sure nothing pleasant would be waiting for him inside the flat. A drunk, horny Sherlock was always fun. But a drunk, sexually frustrated, and angry Sherlock—well that was a recipe for getting anthologies about European serial killers thrown at you from across the room.

John walked up the stairs slowly as he dared and opened the door of his flat carefully. No sign of Sherlock, though there was an empty bottle of wine on the coffee table. Two glasses set out, only one used.

Bugger.

Then he heard mattress springs creaking. He dared to step inside and close the door behind him. The door to Sherlock's room was open, and the bed was unoccupied. He frowned and began to climb the stairs up towards his own bedroom.

The sound got progressively louder. He could hear Sherlock panting. He pushed the door open.

Sherlock was naked, and sprawled across John's duvet. Cheeks flushed, dark curly hair sticking up at all sorts of interesting angles, with a huge dildo buried deep inside him. He was fucking himself on it. But the second he saw John, he pulled the toy out and threw it across the room. It hit the wall with a slick thump.

Before he could register what was happening, Sherlock was on his feet, and John was being dragged towards the mattress. Thrown down on it.

Sherlock loosed John's belt buckle and pulled it off roughly. John struggled a bit when Sherlock undid the button and zip of his trousers and yanked them down around his ankles along with his pants. But John went abruptly still the second Sherlock's lips wrapped around the tip of his cock. That wonderful, clever tongue was swirling around him, massaging the sensitive underside of his glans. Sherlock pulled off for a moment to glare up at him.

"Was your mobile dead?"

John tried to reply but the words died on his lips when Sherlock dove down onto his cock, and the tip of it hit the back of that wonderful, long throat. Sherlock swallowed around him. His muscles contracting beautifully. John groaned, and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock pulled off to breathe, with a rather crazed look in his eyes. He pulled off John's shoes and finished removing all the clothes from the lower half of his body. Then he yanked open the drawer on the nightstand and grabbed the bottle of lube.

John took the initiative to shift so he was lying lengthwise on the bed, instead of sprawled awkwardly across it. Sherlock kneeled at the edge of the mattress before crawling towards John. Swinging a leg over his torso so he was straddling him. The detective poured lube into his hand and began to slick up John's erection.

"I've already come three times," Sherlock moaned breathily as he sank down onto John's cock. "Twice with a vibrator, once just with my fingers."

"Jesus," John groaned.

"Not all of us have the refractory period of a seventy year old man."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Fifty minutes is the least amount of time you've ever taken to get it up again, John. I've kept track. That's why it's unacceptable that you're _this_ late."

Sherlock began to move. The world stopped, and slid sideways at a bizarre sort of half time. John was burning up. Lurching with a tingling pleasure that was almost entirely too much to handle.

"You're so useless. Sometimes I don't even know why I bother with you. Would it really have killed you to send a text?" Sherlock grunted. It struck John that he'd pretty much just replaced the sex toy, for all his participation in the current activity. But when Sherlock was on top of him, he would get violent if John tried to set the pace himself.

He'd been slapped across the face mid-coitus enough times to learn his lesson, thank you.

"God, I'm sorry," John panted. Fingers wrapped around Sherlock's sharp hipbones. It wasn't fair. He felt so fucking perfect—slick, warm, and velvety. It was like he was made for this. For John specifically. They fit together so beautifully. It was utterly sinful.

"I could have called someone else, you know," Sherlock growled. "If I'd known you were going to take such a long fucking time."

"You wouldn't."

"I might."

"Trying to make me jealous?" John smirked.

"Stating facts."

"Would you really bring some other bloke home and shag him in our flat?" The combination of worry and sheer arousal probably should have been disturbing, but it really wasn't.

"Does that thought actually turn you on?" Sherlock snorted.

"Only if I get to watch."

"You're a pig. Where were you, anyway?" Sherlock was shifting, seemingly trying to find the correct angle. He dipped down and bite John's neck before he resumed his experimentation.

"There was a big car wreck… shit that's lovely… they wouldn't let me leave the surgery."

Sherlock leaned forward a bit, splaying his hands out across John's chest. He hadn't bothered to remove John's jumper. Was that the reason it felt so insanely hot in his bedroom?

John loved it when Sherlock rode him. He could be content to stay like this forever. Staring at the beautifully insane man above him. Watching him come apart. Bite his lips. Let out small, animalistic grunts. Sweat. Become human.

He felt the taller man's body jolt. Sherlock let out a tiny whine and began fucking himself on John's cock quite intensely. Must have found the spot he liked.

"You feel so fucking good," Sherlock's breath hitched. "I've been aching to have your fat cock inside me. None of my toys are big enough. They don't stretch me like you do."

John knew for a fact that Sherlock had toys that were almost comically large, and he was just saying that, because when he got to a certain point of pre-orgasmic madness, he said a lot of dirty things for the sake of it. But damn it all to hell if Sherlock's filthy mouth wasn't the sexiest thing on the planet.

"Thought I was useless," John snorted.

Sherlock slapped him right across the face.

"Ouch!"

"You deserved that. Did you like coming home to see me pleasuring myself on your bed?" Sherlock purred. It was rather an abrupt transition. But John didn't really mind.

"Yes. I love it when you act like a horny little slut. When you just can't _stand_ not to have a cock slamming into you."

"Fuck, John, I need it so badly. It feels so good," Sherlock was practically singing.

"That's right. Take it all. Ride me like the filthy whore you are."

Sherlock's eyes were closed. He was moving even faster. Driving John's cock all the way inside him. He could feel the hints of muscles starting to constrict. Flutter.

"Oh shit, oh fucking hell—" Sherlock moaned frantically. He was almost sobbing. John wanted to reach out and touch the lovely cock that was bobbing in front of him, slapping against Sherlock's taught abdomen. But he wasn't allowed. Every time he tried, Sherlock pushed his hand away.

He didn't exactly understand why. But Sherlock was a man with very particular sexual habits, and John quickly found the futility in really questioning them.

"John, oh fuck—I'm going to—ugh—"

"Come for me," John growled.

And Sherlock clamped down around him. He was emptying himself onto John's jumper. Moaning nearly loud enough to shake the windowpanes.

John's orgasm took him almost entirely by surprise. Somewhere in between Sherlock shouting his name, and collapsing on top of him, the heat ripped through him, and he was pulsing inside Sherlock's arse. Crashing on wave after wave of ridiculous euphoria.

Sherlock stayed slumped on him for perhaps a minute or two before rolling off. The air was hot and sticky. John sat up, tugged his jumper off, and threw it across the room before lying back down.

"Did we just combine the fight and the make up sex?" He asked after a minute.

"I dunno. I could probably go for another round of both if you're up for it later," Sherlock drawled in a perfect deadpan. "But you might have to go buy more wine."

"I'm not moving."

"Me neither."

"Well then, I guess that's the end of it."

* * *

At first the whole alcohol thing had puzzled John greatly.

Once or twice in the first week after the pub incident, he'd made the mistake of touching Sherlock when they weren't drunk. Simple things. Like placing a hand on the small of Sherlock's back as he walked past him in their tiny kitchen, or accidentally brushing their hands together as they walked side by side. The way Sherlock recoiled like he'd been burned and wordlessly stared John down was bloody confusing. Especially when later, after he got liquored up, Sherlock would practically drag John into bed.

It had taken him at least a month of inebriated fucking, before he'd worked up the courage to ask about it.

They'd been lying in Sherlock's bed, plastered, in the middle of the afternoon. Sherlock had been in a relatively good mood. Usually he only cuddled right before sleep, but he'd taken John in his arms and spooned him thoroughly.

"So why is it that you only have drunk sex?" John had asked as casually as possible. His head was resting against Sherlock's chest. He'd felt the taller man let out a long sigh.

"Do you want the simple answer or the complicated one?"

"Whichever you'd like." John bit his lip.

Sherlock was quiet for a minute, as if collecting his thoughts. John listened to the detective's heartbeat. It was a bit quick, but steady. Really, it supported his theory that Sherlock constantly ran on overtime. At a gear above everybody else.

"I normally don't like people touching me, because it's too much sensory information. It overwhelms me. Too much data to process—too much stimulation to be pleasurable. Something as simple as a kiss can feel like sticking a fork in the electrical socket." The detective paused, running his fingers down the side of John's ribcage. "But when I'm drunk, it's like my brain is operating at half-capacity, so physical contact becomes enjoyable."

John didn't quite know how he should react, so he simply nodded, and continued to lie there. Sherlock kissed him on the back of the neck.

"It's not a subject I really like to discuss," Sherlock said quietly.

"That's ok. I suppose we don't need to."

And that was the only conversation they had about it. At least—John thought it would be.

* * *

"I want to try something," Sherlock's voice drifted quietly across the kitchen.

John's sleeves were rolled up. He was washing out his teacup, looking out the window over the sink. He finished and turned around. Sherlock was wearing his blue dressing gown, and a pair of pajama trousers. The tall, lean man was chewing on his lip, regarding John with slightly nervous eyes.

It had been a couple of weeks since the texting fight, but only a few days since they'd last had a row about Sherlock using John's computer and somehow getting a hard-drive melting virus on it. They weren't technically still fighting. They'd pretty much fucked it out. But Sherlock looked so tense, John couldn't help but wonder what was wrong.

"All right," John nodded, "what is it you want to do?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and then stopped, frowned slightly, looked at the floor, then looked back up at John before speaking. "First, I don't want you to be offended if it doesn't work. It's never worked before. I don't expect it to. But I'd still like to try."

"Ok…" John was suddenly a little bit worried. He waited a few moments, but it didn't seem like Sherlock was going to explain any further without some nudging. "You still haven't told me what you want."

The taller man walked further into the room with slow, measured steps. He stopped when there was perhaps half a meter separating them.

"I'm not drunk. I'd like to kiss you."

John's eyes widened at that. He'd given up on such fantasies a while ago. He'd come to accept the fact that Sherlock just didn't _do_ sober sex. Was this going to blow up in his face? Probably. But that didn't mean he was going to do anything to stop it.

"All right," John nodded, trying not to seem too eager.

"It's very important that you don't touch me," Sherlock swallowed, "you must let me initiate all physical contact until I ask you to reciprocate. Do you understand?"

"Yeah… you're sure about this? I mean—you really want to?"

Sherlock shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. "Chalk it up to a kiss in the name of science."

John rolled his eyes. But he supposed he really didn't care about the _why_ of it. He always caved in to what Sherlock wanted. Everything else was just a formality.

"All right. Well, whenever you're ready I suppose," he smiled in what he hoped would be an encouraging manner.

He tried not to get his hopes up. Steeled his nerves for the moment Sherlock pulled back, and told him he couldn't handle it.

The other man stepped forward slowly. John could see his hands trembling. He wanted to reach out and grab a hold of them. Offer comfort. But he'd promised not to.

He could feel Sherlock's breath on his cheek. John closed his eyes and waited. There was a long lag of time where nothing happened. Then he felt the gentle brush of a pair of lips against his. Just once. They lingered for a few seconds before drawing back.

John's heart stopped. His body was reacting. It didn't know the difference between a failed experiment and a normal quick kiss. John started to open his eyes to tell Sherlock it was all right. That he didn't mind. That he wasn't offended.

But then Sherlock's lips were pressed against his again, a bit more firmly. It was still a chaste, close-mouthed kiss, but it was a bit less timid. Not just a peck.

Sherlock drew away again. John could hear him panting slightly. His eyes snapped open. Sherlock's cheeks were a bit flushed. He looked more shocked than anything else. He was still hovering close. Breathing erratically.

"All right?" John asked quietly.

"I don't know… it's… a lot."

"Do you want to stop?"

"Not quite yet."

And Sherlock leaned forward again. Pressing their mouths together. His tongue flicked out questioningly and John parted his lips. It took every ounce of will power the doctor had not to seize control, to ravage the other man thoroughly. Just to let Sherlock's tongue wander into his mouth carefully, and retreat before it got very far.

"Kiss me back." Sherlock's voice was odd and breathy.

But John complied, happily. Returning the pressure of Sherlock's lips. Allowing their tongues to brush against each other slowly. Sherlock let out a tiny gasp. John was hard. His core was burning with an immediate sort of lust. And yet, he was perfectly content to do this. To kiss Sherlock gently, and languidly. It was so completely different from the demanding, devouring, utterly sloppy snogs they'd had before.

Somehow, it felt like the most intimate thing they'd ever done.

Eventually, Sherlock pulled away. His eyes were wide and he looked rather dazed. Like he sometimes did when he accidentally fell asleep on the couch, and woke up hours later by rolling off of it and falling onto the floor with a loud thud.

John gripped the counter behind him to steady himself. To keep from reaching out and pulling Sherlock back in.

"So, how was it?" John knew he sounded nervous. There was no point in trying to hide it.

"The feeling was comparable to injecting cocaine."

John let out a snort. "Are you serious?"

"Don't laugh at me." Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"I'm not laughing, just—Jesus. The next time you start calling me a useless idiot, I'm going to remind you that _kissing _me is like doing hardcore drugs."

Sherlock let out a small, annoyed sound and turned on his heel, stalking out of the room. John wondered if he'd just ruined everything. But later that night, there was a bottle of wine set in Sherlock's doorway.

* * *

The days and weeks passed in a blur of fucking and arguing and drinking, and being generally far too happy with such a bizarre situation. That one sober kiss lingered in John's mind, but he never commented on it.

He figured Sherlock would either bring it up, or he wouldn't, and it didn't seem like a wise idea to push things. You never knew with Sherlock. Not really. He was hot, passionate fire in John's arms one minute, frigid and distant the next.

It was early in the evening. One of the first quiet days in what seemed like weeks. There were a few mostly empty containers of Chinese take away sitting on the coffee table. The two men were settled on the couch. John was watching the news, while Sherlock stared aimlessly into space.

There wasn't much warning. One moment they were sitting with an entire cushion's worth of space between them, the next, their thighs were pressed together. John didn't know how Sherlock had moved without his noticing, but he wasn't exactly upset.

They stayed like that for a while. The television continued to flicker. John's eyes stayed fixed on it, but he wasn't really paying attention anymore.

He felt the couch sag. Sherlock was swinging his leg over John, and then he was sitting in his lap, straddling him. It felt like the doctor's heart was going to leap out of his chest. He dared to look up. Sherlock looked almost surprised as John felt. It didn't last. Soon their lips were pressed together, mingling in a few heated little kisses.

Sherlock wasn't drunk. He couldn't be. They'd both been lazing around the living room all afternoon. He didn't taste like alcohol or toothpaste. Just the almond cookie John had convinced him to eat earlier. His hands were on John's shoulders, squeezing lightly. Forgetting himself, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist.

The detective tensed and froze.

John let his arms drop immediately, pulling pack, "oh god—I'm sorry—I forgot—"

"It's all right."

"I—what?"

Sherlock gave a small, tight smile, and he picked John's hands up, placing them back where they'd been a few moments ago.

"You just surprised me, that's all. It felt nice," the taller man murmured.

And he dove in for another kiss. John didn't understand how this could be so different. After all, they'd been shagging for quite a while now. He'd fucked Sherlock in every imaginable position. Kissed him on countless occasions.

But this… well there was a sort of earnest sweetness to it that was about to blow John's brain clear across the room. The way Sherlock moved so timidly and hesitantly. Seemed almost shy every time he swirled their tongues together.

Almost like a virgin.

Sherlock was moving closer to him, pressing up against him. John could feel the heat radiating off his pale body.

"Touch me," Sherlock's voice was soft and a bit shaky. "Please John…"

Well _that_ just went straight to his cock. But he tried his best to focus. He began to gently trace his fingers across the expanse of Sherlock's back. The detective moaned and shivered. He was so fucking responsive. Most people didn't get like this until you'd been teasing them for an hour.

But Sherlock still had his clothes on, for god's sake. John feathered his fingers up the sides of Sherlock's ribcage and came to the top button of his shirt. He pulled back slightly to ask the question, but before he even opened his mouth, Sherlock was nodding and tugging at the hem of John's jumper.

John lifted his arms to allow for the removal of his own clothing, and then he had to pause for a moment. Because Sherlock's cheeks were flushed. His eyes were wide, and supremely focused—not glassy or dazed. His lips were wet. He was breathing like he'd just run a marathon.

All this just from kissing, John didn't dare imagine what it would be like if they pushed it much further. He hoped. But god. Could either of them handle it?

He unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt with steady hands. Skin to skin contact was a whole different rush. The detective was panting into John's mouth, deepening the kisses, so they were a bit closer to the demanding sloppiness John had grown used to.

But Sherlock wasn't shaky from too much alcohol. He was properly spun-out just from John touching him.

Sherlock's fingers fumbled with the button of John's trousers. He was a bit shocked. Almost stopped to ask—_are you sure?_ But then there was no need. Because Sherlock was definitely sure. His hand was shoved down the front of John's pants, grasping his cock and stroking it. And his other hand had taken hold of John's. Sherlock was pressing John's fingers at his own erection through the fabric of his trousers.

"Please," he whispered.

John felt like a teenager again. Drowning in a haze of lust and hormones. He loosed the button of Sherlock's trousers and pulled down the zip. He was a bit surprised to find that the normally posh detective wasn't wearing any pants. Had he planned for this?

Ah well. It didn't matter.

John wrapped his fingers around Sherlock's cock carefully and the taller man groaned, pressing his forehead into John's shoulder. John gave a few long slow, strokes and Sherlock let go of John's erection completely. He was just slumped there, against the doctor's chest. Sounding like he was on the verge of hyperventilation.

"Are you ok?" John asked before he thought about it.

"Don't stop. I'll die."

Well, perhaps that was a bit dramatic. But John kept his hand moving. Watched in awe as Sherlock came apart completely. Unraveling at the seams. Gasping and moaning, and this wasn't like anything else at all.

He wasn't demanding that John go faster. Wasn't spouting endlessly filthy phrases. He was too gone to say anything. He was letting John _touch him._

On an impulse, John pulled Sherlock a little bit closer, enough so that he could press their erections against each other and wrap his hand around both of them. Sherlock's mouth found John's blindly, and the kiss was like a half-mumbled phrase. So desperate, and poorly executed, that John couldn't help but find it sexy.

Sherlock began to thrust into John's hand. Against his cock. And fuck all if that wasn't the most beautiful feeling in the world.

John barely dared to breathe, lest he break this beautiful moment. But he tried to match Sherlock's rather erratic movements. Their cocks were slick with pre-cum. Sherlock was trembling.

Sherlock let out a few rapid little moans.

And then he was coming in John's hand. Pulsing. Covering both of them with his seed. Tensing. Slumping. Grunting. Barely breathing. It was more than enough to send John rocketing over the edge as well.

His balls tightened. His stomach coiled in on itself hot and uncomfortable. Then the shocks of pleasure singed through his nerve endings. His come was mixing with Sherlock's. Covering the skin between them, making it sticky.

John let go of their cocks and slumped back into the couch.

Somebody had hit the universal pause button.

Sherlock was looking at him with an odd, stretched out expression of utter bewilderment. Like he'd only just checked in and realized what they'd been doing. John wanted to wrap his arms around him. Cuddle him close. But he wasn't sure if it was allowed.

This was entirely new territory.

After a few moments of this shared tension, Sherlock clambered back over to his side of the couch. He didn't bother to tuck himself back into his trousers. He just sat there as his cock went flaccid. Still covered in their mutual ejaculate.

"Do you want to talk about it?" John asked quietly.

"No."

"All right then… everything ok?"

"I don't know. I said I don't want to talk about it."

John opened his mouth to say something else, but Sherlock shot him a frankly disdainful look, and that shut him up.

Two days of silence.

Then a bottle of cognac mysteriously appeared on the table.

Things reverted back to their natural order. Drunk sex. Sober avoidance. John tried his best not to think about any of it.

But it was getting more difficult.

* * *

_Oh god! That's kind of a cliffhanger, isn't it? But don't worry. I wouldn't actually do that to you. Chapter two is on the way. It will be posted in the next two or three weeks. I promise._

_Reviews, favorites, and follows will be cuddled within an inch of their life._

_My beta's computer broke, so I edited this on my lonesome. Sorry for any mistakes. They'll be corrected as I find them._

_Until next time, darlings._


	2. Chapter 2

_Fair warning: this dips into the wonderful realm of medical fetish related shenanigans. Nothing too drastic, but you know. John is a doctor. It's high time we took advantage of that fact. Also lots of filthy sex that I'm past the point of even trying to apologize for. I think I've successfully killed off what was left of my sense of shame. I blame you people and your lovely enabling (you know who you are). Enjoy!_

* * *

"I want to play doctor."

Sherlock said it calmly and nonchalantly in between bites of Chinese food. Really, John was thankful he hadn't been chewing on something at that particular moment. He might have choked.

It was just past midnight. Sherlock had finally caught the serial killer he'd been chasing all week. It was time to slow him down and put him into recuperation mode. John knew Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept in days. So the first order of business was food. He probably should have said something when Sherlock ordered a beer with his meal. Or perhaps stopped it at the second one. But now Sherlock was on his fifth—and even though John felt incredibly guilty—just seeing Sherlock with slightly glassy eyes and pink cheeks made his cock twitch and start to swell.

They were in a back corner of the mostly empty restaurant. It was just them and a few drunks near the front. John took his moment to breathe and stare down at his lo-mein.

"I never knew you had a medical fetish," he snorted. Because really, what other way did one respond to such a statement?

"I didn't either. But I was going through your things the other day and I had a wank while wearing your stethoscope. I think it did something for me… is there any way you can bring some medical paraphernalia from the surgery? I think I'd rather like to wear a hospital gown while you give me a prostate examination. I trust you'll be very _thorough_." Sherlock bit down on his lip and cocked an eyebrow.

God fucking damn it.

This was not John's fault. I mean, when Sherlock started saying things like that—he could probably have anybody in all of London on their knees.

But for some bizarre reason, he wanted John. At least, his lizard brain did. Because whenever he got properly knackered, he started pawing at the good doctor, and actually _begging_ for his cock. And then there was that one time on the couch a few weeks ago, when Sherlock hadn't been drunk. But they didn't talk about it. John was under the impression they were pretending it had never happened.

"So you want to dress up in a hospital gown, have me put on some rubber gloves, and then finger you until you come?" John asked as quietly as he could. He was hyper aware of their surroundings. Perhaps having an audience—even if they weren't paying attention—brought the spotlight in on what an abrupt left-turn his and Sherlock's relationship had taken along the way.

He never used to say things like that in public places. Especially not to his flat mates. Then again, he and Sherlock had already thoroughly violated the boundary that people in a flatshare are not supposed to cross. If the boundary was a material object, rather than a metaphorical one, they would have actually shagged on top of it by this point.

"Oh _yes_," Sherlock practically whimpered. "Do you think we could stop by the surgery on the way home? You could just nip in and take a gown…"

"No." John's heart really wasn't in the refusal, and Sherlock knew it, because he was smirking. And terribly wonderful things tended to happen when he smirked like that.

"Come on, John. I'll be the most pliant and cooperative patient you've ever had," Sherlock purred.

"That's a dirty lie. You'll be shouting orders at me the entire time. No hospital gown, and that's final," John said in a crisp, all-business tone.

Sherlock shifted in his chair slightly. Ah. So John wasn't the only one with an erection. Good.

"Do you have any surgical gloves at home?" Sherlock had stopped eating, and was simply fingering his beer bottle. "I might have some around that I've forgotten about—for handling chemicals and such."

"If not that, there should be some in the first-aid, kit." John was admirably calm on the surface. But his mind was racing. Why were they discussing this in public? This wasn't what normal people talked about over dinner. Then again… normal people didn't have dinner at midnight just after placing a mass murderer behind bars either.

"What about a lab coat? And you _must_ wear your stethoscope." Sherlock's foot was gently nudging against John's shin under the table.

"You're really serious about this?" John's mouth was oddly dry.

"I wouldn't joke about such things, _doctor._"

John shivered slightly. This was a bad idea. This was borderline unethical, wasn't it? John actually was a doctor. He should not participate in ridiculously sexualized role-play about it with his lunatic flatmate.

Of course, this was probably just a passing fancy. One week Sherlock was fixated on the idea of being choked, the next he was demanding that John learn how to dirty talk in French. The longer it all went on, the more colorful Sherlock's requests became. John rarely minded.

But this? He shouldn't do this. It would cause a lot of problems with his career if he started getting turned on every time somebody referred to him as _Doctor Watson_ just because Sherlock started calling him that when he was about to come.

However, the way Sherlock was looking at him, how could he really be expected to resist?

When Sherlock was aroused, he flushed slightly, painting an irresistible pinkness over those bitingly sharp cheekbones. His breath got quick and fluttery, and he would unconsciously wet his lips.

"Fine then. Shall I get the check?" John asked evenly. Perfectly aware that every word he spoke was a nail in his coffin.

"No, let me."

And Sherlock was already spinning up towards the front, waving his debit card at the cashier eagerly. John really should be worried about what he'd just signed himself up for. Instead he took a moment to calm himself before standing and walking across the restaurant. He was still half-hard.

He really needed to invest in a coat like Sherlock's. He imagined a long coat like that could do wonders for hiding erections.

* * *

Sherlock practically ran up the stairs into their flat. John followed, at an only slightly less eager pace. Before he could even ask where they were going to do this, Sherlock darted into the kitchen and began clearing things off the table. Even if the taller man was a bit unsteady on his feet with the alcohol, John could tell he was being particularly careful while picking up the beakers and test tubes filled with god knows what.

Normally, John would have made some sort of protest, like—_we eat at that table_. But considering all the dangerous chemicals that were sprawled across the polished hardwood at any given time, he felt such an objection might be ridiculous.

"Go change." Sherlock set his microscope gingerly on the counter by the sink.

John didn't need to be told twice. He climbed the stairs to his room and quickly slipped off the jumper he'd been wearing. He left on the blue button down, and hastily pulled on the white lab coat he sometimes wore at work. Then he draped the stethoscope around his neck and grabbed a clipboard out of his briefcase—mostly as an afterthought.

Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, still fully dressed in one of his darker suits. There was a box of nitrile gloves, and a tube of lubricant placed on the kitchen counter.

For a moment, John couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at the utter bizarreness of the situation. He felt a twinge of embarrassment rise in his chest. What the fuck was he doing?

But Sherlock was just staring at him, waiting, and well—who could say no to that face?

"Now then, Mr. … Holmes, is it?" John asked looking down at his empty clipboard. "What am I seeing you about today?"

A small grin slipped across Sherlock's face before he once again fell into a rather somber expression.

"I believe I'm due for a physical examination."

"Ah yes, here it is. Very well, then. I'll need you to strip for me. Shirt off first." John felt a bit ridiculous as the words came out of his mouth. But when Sherlock calmly slipped out of his blazer and began unbuttoning his light grey shirt, well, John's cock was getting hard again.

He wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock really wanted him to go through a full physical. It was unlikely that he'd actually have the focus for it—when Sherlock was drunk he was quite impatient. So John decided to go through the motions a little bit, just to see how Sherlock responded. He stepped in between Sherlock's spread thighs. Far closer than would be normally proper.

The taller man shivered slightly at the cold press of metal against his skin. John placed the stethoscope right over Sherlock's heart and listened to it race.

It was strangely intimate. Listening to Sherlock's heart pound away. Even though he knew better, even though he had a wealth of experience surrounding Sherlock's warm and perfectly functioning body, sometimes it was still difficult to think of him as a human. Sherlock Holmes had blood pulsing through his veins like anybody else—all the same internal machinery as ordinary people. But somehow it all came together differently, to make him brilliant, and insane, and far too attractive for John's own good.

"Take normal breaths." John said, keeping up his businesslike tone. Sherlock complied, each little puff of respiration smelling vaguely of the crisp ale he'd been drinking. He listened carefully to Sherlock's lungs, trying to push down the concern he always felt about the empty packs of cigarettes he occasionally found in the rubbish.

But Sherlock's lungs sounded perfectly fine.

John looked down. He could see the outline of Sherlock's cock pressing eagerly against his trousers. Their faces were hovering close together. He was torn between continuing in the odd little scene they'd already established, and just saying fuck it all—grabbing Sherlock, and kissing him like mad.

If there was one thing John Watson prided himself on, however, it was an unflappable sense of professionalism.

He stepped back, and was perhaps just a bit pleased at the way Sherlock leaned forward, following him, until he caught himself.

"Now then," John set the clipboard aside, reaching for the box of nitrile gloves," turn around and pull down your trousers. Pants as well, I'm afraid. Then lean over the table, please."

He pulled a glove onto his right hand and watched as Sherlock unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled the zip down. The cheeky bastard caught John's eye as he slid the waistband of his trousers down, along with his pants, as slowly as he possibly could.

Tease.

Sherlock let his clothes pool around his ankles and turned around. He leaned over the table, propping himself up with his forearms stretched out beneath him.

John bit back a tiny gasp, like he always did, when Sherlock was sprawled out in front of him. But he opened the tube of lubricant and squeezed the viscous substance onto his gloved fingers. Sherlock's body was all tense muscles and anticipation as John once again stepped up close to him. He used one hand to gently pull Sherlock's arse cheeks apart, while he circled his entrance with his index finger.

Sherlock moaned, and tried to push back, but John grabbed a hold of his hip to keep him still and continued to tease at his hole.

This was not proper procedure at all. It appeared that his unflappable sense of professionalism went out the window when certain consulting detectives bent over tables and presented themselves in an utterly wanton manner.

"You're going to feel a slight pressure," John's voice was much lower than normal, "but just try to relax."

"Whatever you say, _doctor._"

Ugh.

John's cock throbbed. It was going to be damn hard not to just fuck the beautiful man beneath him right there on the table. But Sherlock had asked to come on John's fingers. John usually gave Sherlock exactly what he wanted

Slowly, almost gently, he slid his index finger into Sherlock's entrance. He paused for a moment, allowing for him to adjust to the intrusion. He kept a firm grip on the taller man's hipbone to keep him from bucking back.

It was only a quick feel-around before John found it. The wonderful little bump full of nerve endings. He brushed across it gently, and Sherlock squirmed.

"Everything appears to be in working order," John said as calmly as he could. Though he could tell he did sound a bit feverish. Just watching his own finger slide in and out of Sherlock's body was entirely too erotic. It was difficult to keep his breath from hitching.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock rumbled.

"No harm in double or triple checking."

John lazily squirmed another finger into Sherlock's tight little hole. The constricting heat around him was lovely. He grazed against Sherlock's prostate again, and the other man groaned.

"_Fuck_."

"Is something the matter, Mr. Holmes?"

"Yes, doctor… there's an unpleasant pressure building inside me. I'm aroused. It's your fault. I think you should help fix the problem."

"And how might I do that?"

"By making me come my brains out."

Well then, John didn't need telling twice. Gentle grazes against the sweet spot turned into steady, insistent motions. Sherlock groaned and panted beneath him, writhing on the table. It was sinful how fucking sexy he looked, all slick, and sweaty—pale skin flushed with arousal.

"More," Sherlock grunted.

John happily obliged with another finger. Sherlock's muscles were fluttering and clenching around his knuckles enticingly, almost like they were trying to pull him in deeper. John was relentless. Rubbing against the hard little knot inside Sherlock. Enjoying the way each motion made the taller man twitch and try to push back against him.

"_Doctor Watson_," Sherlock whined, "fuck me."

"That is decidedly not part of a physical examination," John chuckled.

"But I need it. I need to feel your fat cock inside me, filling me up, slamming into me so that I come across the kitchen table. You want to see that, don't you?"

John really did. But it was quite a lot of fun teasing Sherlock like this. He didn't want to stop just yet.

"Beg for it," he grinned.

"Please, doctor. Please fuck me. I want you to leave bruises on my hip bones so that I can look at them tomorrow while you're at work, and remember what you did. I'll press them so they hurt a little bit next time I touch myself."

John didn't know how a person went about acquiring more self-control. But it seemed like a thing that maybe he should look into. Because Sherlock hadn't begged all that much and he was already unzipping his trousers and slicking up his cock with more lube. He peeled off the glove and tossed it in the rubbish before positioning himself at Sherlock's entrance.

"Oh _yes_," Sherlock moaned as John slid into him.

John was already painfully aroused. He had to pause for a moment, lingering in the tight heat and trying to calm himself down. Sherlock already seemed pretty on-edge. So he hoped it wouldn't take long.

He began to thrust, fast and hard, and Sherlock was making all sorts of wonderful noises to egg him on. Pushing back against his thrusts. John had a firm grip of his hips, and was digging in his fingernails, trying to leave marks because Sherlock had said he wanted them.

"Oh god," Sherlock gasped. "Oh fuck. Just like that."

John kept the angle and increased the pace. Sherlock was practically shouting, and he really hoped Mrs. Hudson was either asleep already, or had her telly on. She rarely complained about the noise. But she did give him knowing looks, and cheeky little winks—and really, that was much worse.

He could already feel Sherlock starting to tense. He was close. John raked his nails down the pale skin of Sherlock's back, leaving tiny red scratch-marks.

"You feel so good," Sherlock breathed.

He pushed back hard against John's increasingly frantic thrusts. And he raised himself up slightly. So he was supporting himself on his hands, but still bent over.

"I'm going to come, John," Sherlock made a wonderful keening noise before continuing, "are you going to lick it up afterwards?"

"Yes." John said it without thinking. Really, he probably wouldn't. Not knowing what sort of experiments had been set on the table since it was last cleaned. But he did like the idea of licking Sherlock's warm ejaculate off the cold, polished wood.

And Sherlock apparently liked the idea too. Because he was gasping, and trembling, and then he went completely stiff, and John felt his internal muscles spasm around him.

John didn't last long after that. It was only another thirty seconds or so before he groaned, and shuddered, and was drowning in a tidal wave of endorphins. His whole body was tingling. His arms were still wrapped around Sherlock.

"Glorious," Sherlock declared hazily.

John had to agree. He leaned to the side slightly, so he could see the table top. Covered in gooey white puddles of Sherlock's come.

Part of him wanted to clean it up now that the haze of arousal was slowly lifting. Part of him wanted to take a picture.

* * *

After the debauched little tabletop shag, Sherlock slept for thirty-six hours. That was his pattern. To go full-tilt until the case was solved, then fizzle out entirely.

When he finally emerged from his bedroom, Sherlock still looked quite groggy. John knew better than to try to engage him in conversation. He just made him a cup of tea, and a slice of toast, and left him to play his violin all day.

Sometimes he was amazed by how easy it was to gauge Sherlock's mood by his music selection.

Paganini meant—_I'm thinking about something exceedingly complicated._

Bach meant—_in a sulk, don't bother me._

Handel meant he was close to solving something.

Shubert meant he was feeling nostalgic.

Vivaldi meant he wanted to have sex later that night.

On that particular day, however, it was Beethoven, and John still hadn't figured out what Beethoven meant. It could be a lot of different things. Something as simple as the fact that Sherlock was hungry and had no intentions of doing anything about it, to something as complicated as the frozen depths of Sherlock's endless boredom. Sometimes Beethoven meant Sherlock wouldn't talk for days. Other times it meant he was moments away from raiding their now well-supplied liquor cabinet and slamming John up against the wall in a violent kiss.

John had work that evening, so he didn't find out what the Beethoven had meant. When he got home at 22:00, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. His violin was back in its case.

The door to Sherlock's room remained closed the next day. John couldn't tell whether he was sleeping or having some sort of private crisis. He nearly knocked and asked, but stopped himself just in time.

Another day passed. He heard more Beethoven from behind Sherlock's closed door. There were takeaway boxes in the refrigerator. So at least that was evidence that Sherlock was eating.

* * *

John woke with a start as the mattress moved underneath him. He blinked blearily and managed to make out a dark shape sinking down on the bed next to him. For a moment, the panic of adrenaline still surged through his veins. Then he gave himself a mental check. He was in his own flat, in his own bed, and the warm lump that had just clambered under his duvet was almost definitely his insomniac flatmate.

He glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. It was 2:03 in the morning. John had to be at the surgery in six hours, which meant waking up in five.

John debated rolling over and falling back asleep. He really did. But then Sherlock squirmed closer. He could feel the body heat radiating off him. They weren't touching, but were probably only a few centimeters apart.

The doctor let out a small yawn, and kissed the notion of a full night's rest goodbye.

"Trouble sleeping?" He asked groggily.

"It was cold downstairs."

John rolled his eyes even though Sherlock couldn't see it. "You've been drinking, haven't you?"

There was no reply. Sherlock didn't smell like alcohol. But then again, he was rather partial to vodka when it was late in the night, because of its lack of aroma.

Sherlock rolled slightly, draping an arm over John's chest. His face was pressed into John's shoulder. The taller man did not seem to be wearing a shirt.

John reached over to trace gentle circles across Sherlock's back. The other man jumped slightly at the contact, and tensed for a few moments before relaxing.

Oh. Not drunk, then. Well… that was new.

"Is this ok?" John murmured.

"Yes."

Sherlock shifted so he was halfway on top of John. Oh my. Completely naked. John could feel Sherlock's cock rapidly filling out against his thigh. Usually, John slept without any clothes on, but Sherlock was always wandering about the flat in pajamas. This had to be purposeful nudity.

Wait—what?

"_John,_" that tiny whispered word shot through the doctor's body like liquid fire. He had trouble breathing for a moment.

Sherlock rocked his hips against John's leg ever so slightly. And god fucking damn it. How was it even possible for a person to be so ridiculously sexy at such an awful hour of the morning? It was really quite difficult not to just flip Sherlock over and have him right there. But of course, John couldn't do that. Well… he really shouldn't.

He still didn't know what the rules were about sober touching. It almost never happened. He didn't want to bring it up. There'd been a lot of great sloppy drunk sex. And John figured, why fix what wasn't exactly broken?

But then, here Sherlock was, naked in his bed, with a hard-on. What the fuck was he supposed to think? They really should have a talk about this one of these days. John was opening his mouth to say something. Before he could, Sherlock started slowly rutting against his leg and well—that kind of killed the train of thought.

The taller man lifted his head so he was staring down through the darkness. He pressed a soft kiss against John's lips, and the doctor just melted.

"_John, please._" God damn it. There it was again. That voice. The things it did to him. It was decidedly different from the harsh, rumbling baritone that Sherlock used to boss him around on cases—which was also different from gritty commanding voice Sherlock used when he was screaming at John to fuck him harder—which was also different from the high-pitched whining Sherlock usually fell into when he was about to come.

Perhaps this particular voice turned him on so much because he almost never heard it. Gentle, quiet, pleading. It really was enough to drive a man completely up the wall.

"Oh god yes," John found himself saying. "What do you want?"

"I…" Sherlock's breathing hitched a little bit. He shifted further on top of John so their cocks were aligned, and resumed his slow thrusting motions. John could feel him trembling. His breath ghosted across John's face in feverish little pants.

It was the most beautiful kind of torture. To just lie there and let Sherlock slide against him in uncertain motions.

"You're so fucking sexy," John groaned.

Sherlock responded with a tiny kiss that somehow managed to make John's skin feel electric.

John gently placed his hands on Sherlock's hips, which caused them to stutter slightly. Sherlock buried his head in the pillow, and then resumed his motion, at a much faster pace.

God. The noises he was making. Tiny little grunts, right next to John's ear.

Skin sliding against sweaty skin.

Head pounding. Hearts racing. Every nerve buzzing in anticipation. Heat building—twisting and writhing in John's belly.

John's hands began to migrate south of their own accord. And before he knew it, he had two handfuls of Sherlock's ridiculously plush arse, and he was squeezing.

John slipped a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. He didn't even push inside. Just brushed against Sherlock's hole. The other man gasped, and shuddered, and then they were both very sticky. John teetered over the edge after him.

Sherlock lay there breathing heavily for a few minutes before rolling off to the other side of the bed. John really wasn't sure what protocol was here. They'd passed out drunkenly together too many times to count.

But this particular situation had never come up before.

Really, John's body decided for him. He was dead tired. After wiping up some of the mess on his stomach with the first item of clothing his hands made contact with on the floor next to him, he lay back down. His eyes fluttered closed, and his limbs felt incredibly heavy. He was just beginning to slip back into the fog of dreamless sleep when the mattress moved again.

"Do you ever take showers that are too warm to be completely comfortable?" Sherlock's voice drifted across the quiet of the room.

"Um… I dunno. Sometimes I suppose," John mumbled. His brain was barely functioning—muddled in a haze of sex and exhaustion.

"That's what it feels like."

"Sorry?" John blinked. What were they talking about? It seemed important.

"When you touch me. My skin gets too warm, and it feels achy, but it's not entirely objectionable."

John digested that for a minute. Such a sentence seemed to have multiple layers of meaning. Meaning he was supposed to glean implicitly, but was having a lot of trouble with in his current intellectual state.

"So—it feels good?" He turned his head to look over to Sherlock's silhouette in the darkness.

Sherlock let out a long breath. "It's right on the edge between pleasant and too much to cope with."

"I see…" John really didn't. But it sounded like a good thing to say.

"What does it feel like to you?"

The gears in John's mind spun for a moment. Nobody had ever asked him to describe how sex felt before. The sensation seemed like generally common knowledge. How could he even put it into words?

"I dunno. It's like—a really good tingling."

Sherlock snorted. "And you call yourself a writer."

"It's two o'clock in the bloody morning! What do you want from me?"

Sherlock reached out and grabbed a hold of John's hand, interlacing their fingers. It wasn't actually cuddling, but it felt a lot like it. John squeezed Sherlock's hand slightly. He knew he was bound to start drifting off to sleep again. But he did his best to stay awake a little longer.

"Do you know what today is?" Sherlock's voice was exceedingly quiet. John almost didn't hear him.

"Tuesday?"

"Tuesday the thirty first. It's been four months."

John didn't know Sherlock had been counting. Was he supposed to have been counting as well? Did you count how many days you'd been shagging your flatmate? Or… had they become something else while John wasn't paying attention?

"Well, cheers to that," John chuckled awkwardly, "I'd say it's been a rather good four months."

"Yes… it has… goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

_Special thanks to_ _**wholockian729**__. Her computer is finally fixed and she edited this at lightning speed._

_Reviews, follows and favorites make me squeal with glee and dance around the house. I can't actually dance. Mostly I just flail my limbs around joyfully._

_I think there's at least one more chapter of this. There might be two. The semester is almost over at my University, so I'm shooting for having another posting in two weeks, but perhaps sooner._

_xoxo_


	3. Chapter 3

_Fair Warning: prepare for the feels. Also, sex in public. And pseudo-virginity. I mean, you should have gotten that last one from the title. But you know. Also, I had zero time to edit. So sorry about any mistakes. I'll fix them at some point. I promise :)_

* * *

Really, when Sherlock said he wanted to go to the cinema, John should have been suspicious. He should have _known _something was going on when they arrived and Sherlock bought them tickets to a romantic comedy that had been in theaters for weeks already and had received generally poor reviews.

Even when they sat in the very back of the theater, where it was darkest, and farthest away from the few other patrons in the front—John didn't put two and two together.

Perhaps he was already caught off guard by Sherlock wanting to go out and do something that was, as far as he knew, not case related. Perhaps he was simply a bit giddy because this was the closest thing they'd ever had to a proper date.

Whatever the reason, John did not realize what was happening until it was too late—the exact moment that Sherlock pulled a flask out of his coat pocket and chugged a frankly impressive amount of what smelled like whiskey.

"_Sherlock_," he hissed. The film had just started. The theater was dark, and filled with the forgettable pop music playing behind the opening credits.

"Yes, John?"

"What are you doing?"

"It's not obvious?"

John let out a long breath to keep from shouting at his flat mate. Even though the theater was mostly empty, just a few teenagers and an older couple, he did not want to come to terms with what was about to happen.

"I can see that you're drinking, Sherlock," he said in his quietist, most patient voice, "but would you like to explain why you're doing that?"

Sherlock's hand snaked over to John's thigh and squeezed. Then he leaned in close and started to whisper into John's ear.

"I'm drinking, John, because I'm incredibly aroused by the idea of sucking you off in a dark theater while you bite down on your fist and try not to moan so loud that somebody notices. Then after you come down my throat, we can sneak out, buy some more whiskey, perhaps have dinner, and catch a cab back to the flat. Hopefully by then enough time will have passed that you'll be able to fuck me. The nice, rough way you do when you're particularly cross about something inappropriate I've done."

God _damn it._

Sherlock was trying to give him a heart attack. That was the only reasonable explanation for this. But his cock was rapidly hardening. And he could almost feel Sherlock smirking against the shell of his ear.

"Call me a slut," Sherlock went breathy. And John knew he was doing it to wind him up. But somehow that didn't make it any less sexy.

"Stop it," John did his best to sound like he meant it.

But Sherlock started running those long, nimble fingers up the inseam of John's jeans. His cock twitched with interest. Perhaps because it was remembering the more sinful things those wonderful hands had done to it.

John didn't push Sherlock away—because that would have been pointless. Instead he tried to focus on the film and will his erection away. But it didn't really help. The leading actress was rather attractive, even if he could already tell that this was just going to be an awful movie, with trite dialogue, and ridiculous situations. The woman was a dentist. It was called "sweet tooth" or something like that.

God. Those _hands._

Sherlock's fingers barely brushed over John's erection and he squirmed in his seat.

"Come on, John. I'll let you fuck my mouth. I'll let you wind your fingers in my hair and thrust into my throat while I swallow around you. I love choking around your huge cock."

John bit down on his lip, torn between frustration and unbridled lust. Sherlock's voice rumbling in his ear was vibrating his brain at just the right frequency—so he'd relent and go along with this insane little plan. He half suspected Sherlock kept an entire room in his bloody mind palace called, "how to be an unbearable tease so that John Watson will do whatever I say."

Not like it was that difficult. It wasn't like John didn't _want_ Sherlock to suck him off right there in the back of a movie theater. Really, common decency was the only reason John hadn't given in yet.

Common decency seemed like a more abstract and silly principal with each passing moment.

Sherlock undid the top button of John's jeans and pulled the zip down. His fingers ghosted across John's cock teasingly through the thin fabric of his pants. But it seemed like the infuriating genius wouldn't be sucking any cock until John verbally gave in. Or requested. Or begged. Whichever came first.

He let out a small sigh and tangled his fingers in Sherlock's dark curls, pulling him into a sloppy kiss. Sherlock tasted like a pub—the sharpness of hard alcohol barely masking the vague smoky flavor. John had thought he'd smelled cigarettes in the flat earlier.

John's thoughts accidentally stumbled into serious territory. His flat mate's "secret" smoking habit was just the tip of the large iceberg of things they never discussed.

Really, he'd never understood why women complained about men being bad at communicating. At least, he hadn't understood it before he and Sherlock had started… well… whatever this was. He didn't know. Because Sherlock never brought it up, and if John ever got up the nerve to ask related questions, Sherlock stared at him blankly until he stopped talking.

Of course, if John asked directly, Sherlock probably would of answered directly. But what was he supposed to say? _Are we just shagging because you're bored? I would ask if you had feelings for me, but you do go on about how you're a sociopath an awful lot. Am I a living sex toy to you?_

There had only been that one conversation. The first morning after. Sherlock had said that they already did everything a couple did besides shag. And at first, John had been hopeful about what that statement implied. But they hadn't talked about it since. It had been a whirlwind of ridiculously enjoyable sex. But it wasn't like John expected a confession of love any time soon.

In fact, he got the distinct feeling that he was replaceable. Because when Sherlock got cross about John being late home—the threat was usually the same. "If I'd known you were going to take so long, I would have called someone else." Perhaps it was an empty threat. Because Sherlock certainly never brought anybody else home. But still. John couldn't be _sure._

Sherlock Holmes was an embodiment of mixed signals. Pushing John away with one hand, and pulling him in with the other.

Like that time, when Sherlock climbed into John's bed in the middle of the night, rutted against him until they both came, and informed him they'd been shagging for exactly four months.

John hadn't known what to make of it. He dwelled on it obsessively for a little while. But then month five rolled around, and Sherlock didn't say anything. John had been keeping track since that night. They were rounding the corner of six months in two weeks.

He wasn't expecting much. But maybe he still wished the half-year mark wouldn't simply pass them by without any note.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock grunted, "you're a terrible kisser when you think too hard."

And that, right there summed up the problem and the solution all in one.

John kissed Sherlock a bit more fervently. Pushing his tongue between the other man's lips in deep, slow motions. The way he'd like to fuck him, but was almost never allowed to. Because Sherlock wanted it fast and hard.

Sherlock pushed down the waistband of John's pants and he wrapped his long fingers around John's cock. He began stroking in an achingly slow manner. And maybe John whimpered slightly.

"Do you want my mouth, Doctor Watson?" Sherlock murmured against his lips.

And John's heart was hammering in his throat. Because god damn him. It wasn't fair how he just dropped in those sexy little _Doctor Watson_ remarks. He knew exactly what it did to John.

"I'm going to fuck you so hard when we get home… you won't be able to sit down without squirming for days. Now suck me off, you tease."

Sometimes, John was surprised at the words that came out of his own mouth. Usually he wasn't, because he didn't really have time to dwell on it.

Sherlock folded the armrest up—of course this was one of the theaters that had retractable armrests—and leaned over. He wrapped those wonderful luscious lips around the tip of John's prick and slowly slid down on him. The good doctor inhaled sharply.

The perfect moist heat was entirely too much to handle. God. It was lovely. The tip of John's cock hit the back of Sherlock's throat, and the other man swallowed. A small groan escaped John's lungs and Sherlock began bobbing up and down.

Normally, they both would have devolved into ridiculous dirty talk by this point. But they were already being too loud as it was. John fought to keep his mouth shut—by pulling on Sherlock's hair a lot harder than necessary. But that just made Sherlock moan around him… and really, that wasn't helping anything. At least, it wasn't helping in terms of them not getting kicked out of the theater. Because John was on the verge of letting out a lot of very loud, very pornographic sounds, and if they got caught, he'd blame it all on the lunatic that was currently giving him the most sinful blowjob in the history of exhibitionist blowjobs.

John couldn't help it. He started thrusting into Sherlock's throat. Usually, Sherlock didn't have much of a gag reflex, and he seemed to be making a valiant effort to relax as much as possible. His hand was wrapped around the lower section of John's cock that would simply not _fit_, stroking in time with the doctor's motions_._ And maybe John was more than a bit keyed up because they might get caught. He knew it shouldn't turn him on. But it bloody well did. It was impossible not to be turned on when you were fucking Sherlock's perfect mouth.

"Oh god," John whispered, "Sherlock... I'm going to—"

The orgasm ripped through him. He was pulsing into Sherlock's mouth. The detective swallowed it all. He even licked John clean as the good doctor floated in a lazy sort of afterglow.

It took John more than a few moments to collect himself. Even after Sherlock zipped up John's trousers, and turned towards the move screen—looking far more innocent than the had any right to look.

"Bloody hell," John muttered.

"You're welcome," Sherlock smirked.

* * *

It happened in the midst of an argument. Really, it shouldn't have come as any surprise—given the way they'd squabbled like an old married couple before they'd ever started sleeping together. And after they'd started shagging like mad, sometimes the fighting and the sex were indistinguishable from each other. They blended and melded in a splatter of passions that left the flat in ruins half the time.

But this fight was different.

John hadn't been prepared for it. In fact, he'd walked through the door in a rather good mood. However, Sherlock's obvious intent to have a good long row hit him like a wave as soon as he crossed the threshold of their flat.

Sherlock was seated on the couch, wrapped in nothing but a sheet, staring down at John's mobile. John had only been out getting milk. He'd forgotten his mobile and figured it wasn't worth it to turn around when he was already halfway up the street. Clearly—that had been a mistake.

"Who is _Cathy_?" The words dripped out like ice cubes, clattering on the floor and melting just enough to leave trails of cold water.

Oh dear.

John's stomach twisted. He set the milk down, and walked over to where Sherlock was sitting. There was no eye contact. Sherlock was still staring at the screen of John's mobile.

"Just a resident at the Surgery," John said carefully. He already knew what Sherlock had seen. The wealth of inappropriate texts Cathy had sent ever since she got a hold of his number. He'd tried to reject her gently, but she really wasn't one to take a hint.

He didn't quite understand why Sherlock looked like he'd swallowed the fire poker, but he had no doubt the tall detective would explain it in detail.

However, instead of a reasonable explanation, John got his mobile tossed across the room.

"Oi!" He stepped towards it to pick it up, but then Sherlock glared at him and he froze mid-step.

"Are you sleeping with her?"

The question hung in the air uncomfortably, like it wasn't a question at all. More of an accusation. John didn't know why he felt guilty. He hadn't touched the girl.

"No." He ruffled.

"You want to." Sherlock replied with narrowed eyes.

"If I did, I could have had her already."

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say. Because Sherlock was suddenly on his feet and they were nose to nose.

John wasn't even sure exactly what they were arguing about yet, but he squared his shoulders against the oncoming tidal wave of verbal abuse. When Sherlock got angry, sometimes he threw things. And when he didn't have any material objects at his direct disposal, he threw nasty insults instead.

"Is it that she makes you feel younger? How old is she? Judging by her atrocious spelling and gratuitous use of emoticons, she can't be older than twenty."

"Sherlock, I don't know what the fuck you're on about! She's practically stalking me. I keep telling her no."

"Clearly you haven't said no, because that would have dissuaded her. You've been passive aggressively allowing her to continue in her advances. I bet you haven't even told her that you're taken."

"Taken?" John repeated. Suddenly the anger he'd been building, all the comebacks he'd been preparing in his head fizzled out. Now he was just _confused_.

Sherlock simply stared at him for a moment. As if he'd also been derailed.

There was a long silence.

"Have you been seeing other people this _entire _time?" Sherlock asked in a voice John had never heard before. It was pained, but he wasn't acting. He slumped like somebody had just slapped him across the face.

"What? No—have you?"

"Of course not! We're…" Sherlock trailed off.

There was a moment where John definitely should have said something. Perhaps finished Sherlock's sentence for him. _Dating. Lovers. Anything. I'd be anything for you._

He realized the second it passed. Because Sherlock turned on his heel, and began walking towards his bedroom. John knew if that door closed, it wouldn't open again for days.

Sherlock walked briskly, but John was faster. He was blocking the doorway, arms flung out, hands grasping the sides of the entrance—because just _standing _in Sherlock's way wasn't going to do anything. He had to be a human wall.

"Move," the other man said in a curt voice that barely masked the tremble underneath it.

"No, Sherlock, we need to talk about this."

"I made an incorrect assumption. I don't see what more we have to discuss."

"That's the problem! You always assume things and you never tell me about them. How am I supposed to know?"

"Really, John. You can be a bit dull. But I thought even you could infer something from the fact that we've been sleeping together for almost six months," Sherlock said coldly.

"You said you didn't like labels."

"I say a lot of things," Sherlock snapped. "Now move."

"Why don't you want to talk about this? For god's sake, I don't even know what we're arguing about."

"We're arguing about the fact that _you_ are chasing after air-headed twenty-somethings, while I've been going about my life under the impression that we are a couple. I'm sorry for my miscalculation. It won't happen again."

"Sherlock—"

"Don't. I've heard it all before, John, I assure you. The sex is nice, but you can't be in a relationship with somebody who never lets you touch them unless they're completely knackered. It makes you feel dirty. It's not healthy. I'm pathetic. It's quite possible that I'm an alcoholic. Well, I did it all for you. So you're welcome. We can still shag occasionally if you like, but right now I can't stand to look at you. So get out of the way, or I'll walk out into the street in nothing but this sheet."

John didn't even think about it. He reached out and pulled Sherlock into his arms. The other man tensed and squirmed at the touch, but John did not let go.

"John! Release me this instant!"

"No. Then you'll leave."

"That's rather the point."

"I don't want you to leave."

"Why not?"

"Because, god help me, I love you—you ridiculous bastard."

Sherlock went completely still.

"You what?" He barely whispered.

"I love you," John said with a little less certainty. Because the first time it had just slipped out. And he was only beginning to think about the implications.

He looked up to meet Sherlock's eyes and saw the moisture starting to collect. He could feel the other man shaking slightly. The first real tear gathered in the corner of Sherlock's left eye and ran down his cheek slowly.

John wasn't sure if he'd just crossed the final line. The one he was never meant to cross. To never admit that—yes—he'd gone ahead and tumbled head over heels for a high functioning sociopath. But he couldn't help it. How could you shag someone so utterly perfect and deliciously insane for nearly half a year and not start to develop feelings for them?

But then the sheet fell to the ground. Sherlock captured John's mouth in a desperate kiss. His naked body pressed flush against John's clothed one.

And that's how it usually went. A fight tapering seamlessly into sex. But this was different. Sherlock was stone cold sober, and jumping at John's touch, but his hardening cock was pressed against John's stomach.

"Sherlock," John breathed, "you don't have to—if it's too much we can—"

"I want to."

A pair of large hands wrapped around John's hips and he was being walked backwards into Sherlock's bedroom. Being kissed. Caressed.

Usually when they got to the bed, Sherlock would throw him down on it. Eager with arousal. But this time, they stopped at the edge of the mattress, and Sherlock looked uncertain for a moment before he sank down and lay on his back.

"Take me," he whispered, "I—I need to feel you inside me."

John stood for a moment, he opened his mouth and the sentence hadn't even really formed before Sherlock cut him off.

"Don't ask me if I'm sure. Because I'm not. But that doesn't mean I don't want it. Now come here."

John pulled his jumper over his head, toed off his shoes, and shed his trousers along with his pants before sinking down on the bed beside Sherlock.

The taller man's pale skin was colored warm and pink with arousal. John lay on top of him. Sherlock placed his feet on the bed, so his knees rose on either side of John's torso. He could feel Sherlock shaking. He pressed a tender kiss against his lips.

"Have you ever done this before—I mean, when you were sober?" John asked softly.

Sherlock's eyes were still wet and wide with emotion. He shook his head. "Go slowly."

John's chest ached. Because suddenly the gravity of everything they'd been doing was sinking in. All he could do brush their lips together once again.

He reached for the drawer on the bedside table, pulling it open and grabbing the tube of lubricant. He squeezed it into his hand and warmed it slightly, before brushing a slick finger between Sherlock's cheeks. The other man shuddered.

"All right?" John whispered.

"Yes." The reply was clipped. Slightly choked off.

But John continued. Slowly, very carefully, he pressed at Sherlock's entrance. The detective's breath caught. John pushed in a little further and grazed against Sherlock's prostate.

"_Oh_," Sherlock moaned softly.

"Does it feel good?" John murmured past the other man's ear.

"Yes—I—_God. _Keep going."

Normally, John would have chuckled at Sherlock's inability to form sentences when he was too aroused.

But it wasn't funny right then. John was too focused, trying to monitor Sherlock's facial expressions for any sign of discomfort. He brushed against Sherlock's prostate again, this time a bit more firmly, and the other man squirmed. His breathing went ragged.

John kept up at a slow, careful pace for several minutes before he dared to add another finger. Sherlock was sweating. Making all sorts of small keening noises. Usually he'd be talking. Begging John to fuck him. Berating the good doctor with all starts of graphic imagery to get him to move along with things.

Instead, Sherlock was clutching at the bed sheets and writhing, and biting down on those wonderful plump lips of his—causing them to swell and slick in a way that was entirely too tantalizing.

John slipped a third finger, and Sherlock let out a breath so suddenly it was almost as if the wind had just been knocked out of him.

"Is it too much?" John planted a small kiss on Sherlock's shoulder.

"No… yes… I can't tell."

"Do you want me to stop? We can stop at any time you want. There's no pressure."

"You're being too considerate. I'm just—ugh—I'm almost ready. Just keep going."

John began moving his fingers slowly, thrusting them in and out ever so slightly. He watched every muscle in Sherlock's body tighten and relax.

A lot of the time, Sherlock prepared himself. John got to occasionally, when it was a game, or when Sherlock couldn't be bothered with it. But… he'd never taken this long before. Never taken the time to fully appreciate the way Sherlock's internal muscles fluttered around his fingers. The way he squirmed, or suppressed the urge to squirm, every time John brushed against his prostate.

"John," it sounded almost strangled.

"Yes?"

"If we keep going like this I'm going to… please… I want you."

John took a long breath to steady himself. It wasn't Sherlock's usual dirty talk. But it was doing unspeakable things to him. His cock was throbbing—quite possibly harder than it had ever been before. He slicked his erection with liberal amounts of lubricant. There wasn't really such a thing as too much. And he didn't want this to hurt. Even though it would. Because Sherlock didn't like being touched. John was fully prepared to just get the tip in before Sherlock cried that it was too much, and made him pull it back out.

He positioned himself with one hand, while he supported his body with the other. Sherlock's arms were draped around his shoulders, and despite his declarations of need and readiness, he still looked nervous.

"Just try to relax," John said softly. Teasing the tip of his cock around Sherlock's hole without quite pushing it.

"We've had sex before, John. You're not going to break me. It's fine." Maybe the detective meant to sound sarcastic, or catty. But he couldn't hide the fear in his eyes.

John leaned down just enough to press their lips together as he slowly pushed the head of his cock past the first tight ring of muscle. Sherlock let out a shocked gasp. John stilled, allowing him time to adjust. To say no.

But after perhaps thirty seconds that felt like the expanse and contraction of a universe—Sherlock wrapped his legs around John's waist and rocked his hips slightly. Allowing John's cock to dip in just a little bit deeper.

They groaned in unison.

"Oh _Jesus_," John gritted out.

Sherlock looked like he was making a valiant effort to never breathe again. He was still, and vibrating with tension. But he repeated his previous motion. Pulled John forward with his legs, and bucked up against him. And then the tall, pale man let out a quiet whimper.

John wasn't sure if they were having sex or playing tug-of-war at a bizarre sort of halftime. But they thrust together and pulled apart at a tempo too slow for even the world's most relaxed piece of experimental music. And his brain had melted. He couldn't think. He was trapped in the wonderful tight heat of Sherlock's body, frustrated by the lack of stimulation, and entirely happy to continue running along this blade's edge for the rest of his life.

Over the course of the slow thrusting, John's cock buried itself deeper in deeper in the constricted warmth. He hardly realized it was happening until he found himself fully seated in Sherlock's arse.

Sherlock had closed his eyes. He clutched John tightly, as if he might drift away at any moment. John pressed his body entirely against Sherlock's, nuzzling at his neck. Pausing to revel in the magnificent slowness.

"How does it feel?" He thrust languidly, punctuating his question.

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "Hurts a bit. But it's not bad. It's just so… you're so warm, John."

John propped himself on his forearms and began to move at a still decidedly slow, but more established rhythm.

He could barely deal with the suffocating affection he felt for the man beneath him. It threatened to overwhelm him completely. Because maybe it was just him—but this felt like making love. And John dimly realized he'd never made love to anyone before. Not like this. All the rest of it had been fucking. Racing towards the finish line.

He didn't want this to ever end.

"It's like I'm full and I never knew I was empty before." Sherlock barely whispered. But John still heard.

And maybe those weren't the words that anyone else would use. It didn't matter. It was just enough for John to know he wasn't alone and lost at sea. They were both there. Rolling in the haze of over-active neurotransmitters and vulnerability.

He gradually picked up speed, and Sherlock was meeting every one of his thrusts. John angled upwards, to drag against Sherlock's prostate, and it earned him a shuddering cry.

"You're so beautiful," John's words were broken and slightly muddled. But he hoped the feeling got across.

Sherlock looked up at him. His curls were tangled and messy, sprawled across the pillow on an odd little halo. Pink cheeks, short quick little breaths. John could feel Sherlock's internal muscles starting to contract—squeezing around him uncertainly.

"I love you too."

The phrase was mashed in between a grunt, and a rather impressive moan. John barely managed to catch it. To latch onto the meaning before Sherlock clamped down around him, and almost sobbed as the orgasm ripped through his taught body. His cock jerked between them, painting their stomachs in sticky little puddles of ejaculate.

John toppled over the edge after him. The tingling, near painful pleasure ricocheted through his utterly wrecked nerve endings. He was completely gone for a moment. Before he checked back in. On top of Sherlock. Both sticky, and out of breath.

"Well..." John started but he didn't know how to finish.

"That was intense," Sherlock sighed.

"Yeah."

"I'm not sure I could do that all the time—but perhaps every once in a while."

The silence stretched out. John withdrew from Sherlock and rolled off of him. They were still touching, but just barely.

"Do you really love me?" He asked softly, not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

Sherlock shifted on the mattress, silent for a few moments. "Don't make me say it again. I know you heard me."

"So you do."

"Can we drop the subject?"

John rolled his eyes. But he couldn't contain the warm, elated feeling blossoming in his chest.

"So where do we go from here?" Mostly he was musing aloud to himself. He didn't expect an answer. Sherlock snorted.

"I don't see what had changed. Unless you want a ring or something, I doubt there's much more I can do."

John chuckled slightly, at the thought of Sherlock in a wedding dress. But he let the thought pass without much of a struggle. "I don't need a ring, Sherlock. I've got you and that's honestly more than I can handle."

John laced their fingers together and squeezed lightly. It was the day before the six month mark. And it was nice to know that Sherlock cared. God. It was more than John had ever dared to hope for.

And as they lay in Sherlock's bed that lazy afternoon, for the first time in his life, John felt truly content.

* * *

_Did I actually just write a happy ending? Those are difficult and painful for me to construct. Writing this gave me so many FEELINGS._

_I'm kind of sad that this story is over. But I suppose I can always come back and write more deleted scenes and whatnot. Also, I might right an epilogue where Sherlock tops :)_

_In my mind palace, this story is part of a trilogy. And the last story will be from Sherlock's POV. Post RBF and post Mary Morstan. Sherlock and John will be older, and they will buy a house together. I cannot promise you when said story will get written, as I'm vastly over committed and pulled in to many writing directions. But I imagine it will happen sometime this summer. There's now a story update schedule on my profile, so you can keep an eye on that. I think the last story will be called "The Adventure of the House With a Yard."_

_I love you, smut friends. Thank you so much for your continued support of my porning._

_xoxo_


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